What We Make
by Cardio Necrosis
Summary: Sometimes, childhood games can be oddly prescient.


**Notes:** Thanks to theletterv for betaing. Also, because I don't know how to do strikethroughs on this site, I underlined the "remaining" words.

What We Make

House lay on his couch, ankles crossed on the arm while he rested his head on a makeshift pillow he made with Wilson's jacket. He could hear Wilson puttering around in the kitchen and cleaning House's dishes. House would have helped, seeing as Wilson hadn't dirtied any of them, but then House would actually have to, well, _help._ And that wasn't nearly as entertaining as the handheld Blackjack game he was playing.

Besides, he could tell Wilson was in a bad mood. He could always tell when he and Julie had gotten into an argument, because he would appear, without calling, at his door with a pinched smile and walk in without an invitation. He would then start cleaning. It was a good thing House tended to leave things lying about, otherwise who knew what Wilson would do to quell his anger or sadness or whatever the feeling was that Julie inspired. After he finished scrubbing and washing obsessively like a meth addict coming down from a high, he would act as if nothing interesting had happened for a few moments before spilling about his marital problems, which House would grow bored of, make a joke, and distract Wilson with TV and beer.

The game cheered because he'd won this match of Blackjack. He smirked to himself, and started up another game.

The clanging of the dishes stopped and he saw Wilson emerge, sleeves rolled up his arms and hands on his hips. House watched him survey the living room, then he sighed and dropped his head, going over to the chair.

He sighed again and House, after having barely glanced at the game, looked to see why Wilson was in a conniption, and remembered that the box containing his half-eaten large pizza was resting there. The coffee table was covered in Thai boxes and empty Vicodin pills.

"Perhaps you should've focused on the living room instead," House mused before turning back to his game.

"Maybe if you did something other than laze about on your days off . . ."

"Well if I cleaned, then what would I need you for?" he retaliated, then groaned when his next card pushed him over twenty-one.

Wilson didn't say anything in return, turned around and moved toward the couch. He stopped short and House grinned when Wilson eyed his body; dark eyes roving from his head to his bare feet. "House," he groaned.

"What?"

Wilson gestured at his feet, and House rolled his eyes, moving them aside.

Wilson plopped onto the couch beside him, and House placed his ankles on the arm of the couch again, he legs effectively becoming Wilson's seatbelt.

"House." There was more defeat in his tone.

House didn't move his feet. "Julie's that mad, huh?" he pressed, mostly just to be annoying. The game declared him a loser and he scowled.

"I don't want to talk about it." He leaned his head against the back of the couch. House started a new game and mentally counted down in his head. He gave it eight seconds. When he hit one, Wilson let out loud breath. "She knows I have to work late, House. She _knows_ this."

"Thought you didn't want to talk about it?"

Over the top of the game, he could see Wilson turn a glare at him. "You know, I wonder why I even bother coming here sometimes. You certainly don't help matters any."

"So the argument was about me then." It wasn't a question, because he wasn't an idiot. Considering Wilson was still in his work clothes, he doubted he'd even gone home; the argument must've taken place over the phone. Had he gone home, he would've changed his clothes, not just unbuttoned his cuffs so he could roll the sleeves up his arms so they wouldn't get wet in the sink.

Wilson's silence was very telling. House filled it with bleeps from playing his game and losing yet another hand of Blackjack. Good thing it was electronic so he wasn't losing real money.

"Belinda's terminal and she wanted to go through her options with her family. They were late showing up, and-"

"Don't care," House interrupted. Because he didn't, and he needed to concentrate.

"She's _your_ patient."

"No, she _was_ my patient. Inflammatory Breast _Cancer. _Out of the two people here, which one of us took the burn-out profession?"

"She's dying."

"Her breast swelled three times its size and looked like a porous grapefruit. I think I can do the math on my own."

"Fine, House. Why _would_ you care? After all, I missed dinner so you could whine about _your_ emotional crisis with Stacy, and I missed dinner again to deal with _your _patient, and I'm going to be sleeping on _your_ couch, so-" He seemed to have forgotten where he was going with his moody little rant because when House looked away from the game, Wilson's lips were pursed and his shoulders were drawn up tight, with hands clenching and unclenching into fists. "It's not your marriage that's failing," he finally snapped.

"And it's not _my_ fault you married her."

Wilson snorted and looked away from him, lips turning white because of how thinly they were pinched. He folded his arms across his chest and slouched slightly so his shoulders almost touched his ears.

"You need to get laid. When was the last time Julie put out?" Wilson didn't answer, so it must've been a lot longer than he felt comfortable to admitting. "Well, I'm sure some nurse will bat her eyelashes at you soon enough."

"I don't cheat on Julie."

"Yet," House pointed out, and had a thrill of victory when Wilson quirked his eyebrow and tilted his head in a half-hearted nod. _Touché, _House imagined Wilson saying, then lost, _again, _so his smirk melted into a grimace.

House beeped his way to victory as Wilson steadily slouched more, so that he could feel Wilson's zipper against the bottom of his pyjama pants, which reminded House of Wilson's crotch. Which distracted him from his game so he lost the second round without even realizing he'd been playing.

He glanced up at Wilson's profile. He was staring at the blank TV, dorky thick eyebrows furrowed and frown wrinkling his annoyingly-youthful and attractive face slightly. His bangs flopped onto his forehead, a perfect little twirl in it that House suspected Wilson slaved over in order to get it to twist just right. "Your hair is floppy," he remarked.

"As you're fond of telling me," he replied dully and without changing his expression.

Frowning, House lowered his game so the screen was against his chest and ignored it for a second. Wilson was clearly bothered by the whole thing. Well, more bothered than usual.

He unhooked his ankle and pressed the top of his foot to Wilson's jaw, forcing him to turn his head and look House in the eye. "Chin up. You're harshing my mellow."

He ignored the fact electricity buzzed through his foot, and tried to tell himself that it had fallen asleep. They didn't touch often, and they certainly didn't touch like this. Wilson's face was warm as were his brown eyes, and House cleared his throat before it could swell up, but his effort was in vain when Wilson tilted his chin up in a way that (probably inadvertently) made him nuzzle his foot.

"Get your foot off my face. That's disgusting." Despite his order, Wilson did nothing to move away either.

House narrowed his eyes and, because he was starting to get uncomfortable with how much he was getting affected by this, flipped Wilson's top lip with his toe.

"Gah, House!" Wilson yanked his head back and sputtered, then knocked House's foot away, although there was a grin on his face that was at odds with his behaviour. Chuckling, House waggled his toes against Wilson mouth again, and Wilson forcibly grabbed his foot and pushed it back onto the arm of the couch, fingers squeezing into his skin and it felt oddly nice.

"Oh, good. I needed a foot rub."

Wilson snorted back some laughter and squeezed House's foot once before letting it go. They met eyes and House felt himself smiling despite not wanting to, and Wilson dropped his head so it leaned against the back of the couch again. He drummed his fingers idly on House's ankle as he contemplated the ceiling, the smile fading. "I wish sometimes you could . . . _know,_ you know?" He turned his head so he could see House, cheek sticking to the couch.

"No," he answered truthfully, narrowing his eyes.

"It's-it's like the game, when I was little. It was supposed be a fortune. MASH?"

"MASH?"

"Mansion, Apartment, Shack, Home." Wilson waved a hand dismissively. "It was supposed to tell you who you married; how many kids you had. Life would be simpler if you could know beforehand. You wouldn't have to think you'd met the right one and then, years later, realize what a horrible mistake you'd made."

"The future's not set. There's no fate but what we make for ourselves." Wilson lifted his head from the couch, brows knitted closely. "What? If James Cameron can pretend to be deep while saying it, so can I."

He smiled humourlessly and shook his head. "Never mind."

"Do me."

Wilson's head snapped back towards him. "What?"

"This fortune game. Do me," he ordered, although he smirked when he realized what Wilson must've thought he meant.

Wilson blinked once, then moved forward, leaning over House. House's heart leapt into his throat but he didn't move as Wilson settled on top of him, head leaning closer and House moved upward to meet Wilson's mouth.

Wilson moved aside and grabbed the jacket House had been using as a pillow. Realizing that Wilson had never intended to kiss him, House mentally slapped himself, but took this opportunity to turn his head and sniff Wilson's hair. He closed his eyes and pushed his nose into the strands and Wilson's hands stopped rummaging underneath him; he swore he felt Wilson turn his head so his mouth brushed House's ear and their chests pressed together-

The game House rested on his chest cheered him on and he jumped at the sudden noise.

Wilson pulled away and sat normally again, with his legs still trapped underneath House's. With his heart doing the tango, House pulled the game up and distractedly started a new one, ears buzzing. What the hell had be been thinking?

The makeshift pillow was gone and he heard and half-saw in his peripherals Wilson rummaging through the pockets. House forcefully pushed that out of his mind.

He focused solely on the game, on turning cards and the fact he lost but he couldn't concentrate on that at the moment. Not when he realized how much of a dumbass he'd just been.

"I, uh, need four people."

House didn't look away from his screen, and wished that his ears would stop burning and heart would stop slamming so hard into his sternum. "Well, that sounds like a party. Stocked up on Viagra?"

"I'm not nearly as impotent as you are. And no, for the game."

House could have imagined the fact their banter was hastened and awkward. He chose to accept that it was imaginary. "Stacy," he said.

"You can't pick her; she's married."

"Please, coming from _you?"_

"Fine." He heard the scratch of a pen and he glanced up to see Wilson scribbling on a prescription pad. "I'll need another."

House opened his mouth and nothing came out. Wilson's eyes slid from the paper and met his. "You," he rasped, and almost immediately regretted it. He was admitting something that he didn't want to ponder over; putting Wilson in the same class as Stacy, and Wilson knew damn well what he thought of Stacy.

Wilson looked back and the paper and wrote it down. He didn't say anything; his expression didn't change. Maybe House was being paranoid and Wilson really didn't have a clue. He didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

"I'll need two more."

"Cameron and Cuddy," House said, not really thinking too much on the answers anymore. Cameron was pathetic and he'd handled that misfortune already; Cuddy was hot and good in bed, so if he 'got' her then at least he'd know he'd be satisfied.

"You better pray you don't get Cameron."

"Afraid I might off myself when she begs me to open a rescued kitty shelter?"

"It had crossed my mind." he snorted. "You and Cuddy? Think the hospital should update its insurance to cover Reign of Destructive Fire?"

"I think there's an Act of God clause somewhere."

Wilson chuckled dryly and shook his head. "I'll need four vehicles."

"My 'Vette, my car . . ." he rattled off, pulling his game up again now that his heart had settled in his chest somewhat. "Um . . . I don't know, Wilson, it's a stupid game. You pick."

"A Volvo . . ."

"All right, no. You don't pick anymore." He glared at Wilson who just laughed, and he rolled his eyes. "You know, I've always wanted a motorcycle."

He watched Wilson write that down, mouth still turned upwards in a soft smile, then he tapped the back of the pen against his bottom lip. Hosue stared at how soft his lips were. "All right, four numbers," he ordered, mouth quirking upward again and eyes darkening.

House hummed. "Forty-two, three hundred . . ." He remembered that the game was also supposed to decide how many children you were supposed to have and suddenly the evil smirk on Wilson's face made sense. "Zero," he stated firmly.

Wilson chuckled darkly. "I still need one more, House."

"Fine," he relented slowly, then moodily lifted his game and started bleeping his way through another set of cards. "One."

"And I'll need a number between five and ten."

House furrowed his brows. "Seven," he said when he flipped over a seven in the game. "I swear if I get Cameron, I'll strangle you."

"You think you have it bad? First person I ever dated ended up marrying someone we barely knew, riding a train everywhere, and living with thirteen children in a shack."

"Ouch. What really happened?"

"Married a writer and moved to England," he muttered, then started tapping the paper and counting quietly enough that House couldn't quite hear the words.

He half-heartedly focused on the game and won two rounds, but lost the third, by the time Wilson pointedly cleared his throat. House looked upward and saw him dangling the scrip in the air. House turned off the game and swiped at it, but he missed it by a mile, considering their position. "Just let me see it," he demanded

Wilson smirked, then nudged House's legs. "I need to use the restroom," he explained and House swung his legs off Wilson and tossed the game onto the coffee table. It knocked off the cluttered garbage as House sat properly.

Wilson shook his head and walked away; House got comfortable and looked at the scrip.

MASH

1 Stacy 1 Corvette 1 42

2 Wilson 2 Your car 2 300

3 Cameron 3 Volvo 3 0

4 Cuddy 4 Motorcycle 4 1

7

It was stupid. It was just a bunch of scratch-throughs based on what happened to be the seventh. That was it, and House knew it. A stupid scrap of paper that didn't deserve any second glance; some stupid thing they'd scribbled out in the middle of the summer.

And yet . . .

He stared at Wilson's unblemished name and tilted his head. Living in a home with Wilson, no children and . . . owning a Volvo. Apart from the Volvo, it actually didn't seem all that bad.

He heard the toilet flush and he cleared his throat. He _meant _to crumple it, but . . .

Instead he folded it in half and stuck it in his pyjama pants pocket.

He grabbed the remote as Wilson left the bathroom and flipped on the TV. Wilson casually sat beside him. House waited for him to mention the results, because he knew what they were just as much as House did, but he said nothing.

House followed Wilson's lead, and the only reminder he had of anything that had passed was the pressure of one of the folded corners pressing into the side of his thigh.

* * *

><p><em>Six Years Later<em>

Wilson tried not to snap at him.

He pushed all the rage and confusion and betrayal and every other emotion he'd had coursing through him in undiluted form for the past months into his gut. He tried not to imagine House sitting on some beach somewhere, gaining an attractive tan and sipping scotch on the rocks with bikini clad women around him, salt-tinged air swirling gently around him while Wilson had dealt with the consequences; had spent months nursing an ulcer, going through hundreds of horrible, deadly scenarios in his head of where House could be or what could be happening to him instead of the reality that he was just vacationing, as if ramming his goddamn car into a house was a perfectly normal thing to do.

Without warning, House had turned up at his door with luggage in hand, wearing sunglasses and a tacky Hawaiian shirt. "I got evicted," he'd explained unnecessarily before pushing into the loft uninvited. Not that he'd ever asked for an invitation once in their friendship in the first place.

As they'd driven to the storage shed, that _Wilson_ had paid for with his own money, after moving all of House's things into it when he'd been called up (he'd co-signed for the apartment years ago) he'd told House about everything he'd missed while he was gone. He'd told him that Cuddy had dropped charges because she knew that having House was more important to the hospital than not, but she'd left knowing that when House returned (as he would) that they couldn't possibly ever have any sort of relationship, work or otherwise. He explained that Foreman had been in charge of Diagnostics before taking over Dean's position. Thirteen had taken over Head of Diagnostics, as Foreman had appointed her, and that she seemed to be doing a wonderful job. He explained that Dominika had gotten an annulment when House up and disappeared on her, and went back to her home country.

House hadn't seemed the least bit interested in anything he'd said.

So they'd gone back to the loft and started to unpack the boxes Wilson had, only two weeks prior, packed.

House acted as if nothing had happened; nothing had changed. As if he'd been on vacation for a few days and that was all. Whatever reason House had come back, it certainly wasn't to be lectured and a part of Wilson feared that if he snapped at him, he'd just leave again. Why not? He'd up and left without any warning a few months ago, leaving Wilson completely alone and fending off question after question after question about House from police officers, employees, patients, both of their parents . . . Not to mention Arlene, which was something Wilson never wanted to go through again. Arlene scared the hell out of him.

But the longer the silence stretched, the harder it was too stop himself from bursting at the seams.

Finally, he pushed the now-empty box aside and turned to face House, who was casually putting his DVDs on the shelf with Wilson's. "You broke my wrist," he snapped.

"No, you broke it because you dove into the sidewalk, Smart One."

"Because you were going to hit me!"

"I wasn't going to hit you," House informed tiredly as he took off his sunglasses, tossing them at the coffee table but missing by a few feet, as if they'd had this discussion a million times before when they most assuredly hadn't.

"Do you have any idea what I've been going through? I-House, people thought you were _trying to murder Cuddy."_

"People are morons," he stated with a one-armed shrug, then kicked aside his empty box. "Are we going to unpack or get all weepy eyed?"

Wilson scoffed and turned to the nearest box, which just happened to be a wooden chest that House had kept either in his room or in his closet; Wilson's memory was melding together at this point in anger.

"Yes, let's just _completely_ ignore everything, like usual."

"We should be used to elephants by now."

"Dammit, House! For once in your life, could you just-"

"No, I will not _just._ Did it ever occur to you that maybe I don't want to _just?"_ House snapped at him.

Wilson growled and made a choking gesture in House's direction, who just kicked a box and it barely skidded across the floor. Wilson clenched his jaw, then scoffed and turned back to the chest. He heard House shuffling around and sifting through whatever the box had contained, and then he just shook his head, clenching his teeth so much his jaw was starting to ache.

"Are we done?" House asked icily.

"Yeah, we're done," he relented, tracing his finger across the top, leaving a clean trail in the dust. He felt his eyes start to prickle and throat close up; House had no idea of how much it had hurt to be left behind, with no idea of if he would see him again-or if he did, if they'd be able to get back to being how they were.

Then again, maybe House did know; after all, Wilson had . . .

He rubbed at his eyes, swallowing the lump in his throat that formed when he felt the wetness on his cheeks, and the cleared his throat. "What's in here, then?" he asked, looking over his shoulder.

House glanced at the chest that Wilson had on the kitchen table. "Stuff I've kept over the years."

"Like . . . ?"

"I don't know. Things." He shrugged and pulled out a sweater that was definitely Wilson's.

Frowning, Wilson turned back to the chest and opened it. Most of it looked completely random, but he knew House wouldn't have kept it for no reason. Although his stomach still clenched and his eyes still burned, he reached in and pulled out a black Bic lighter, furrowing his brows.

"What on earth would you keep this for?" Since House was packing behind him, he turned around and showed House the lighter.

"That's the lighter I used to light our joint in New Orleans. It died halfway through our second round."

Wilson half-smiled and scoffed, although good-naturedly. That was two decades ago, and they'd been completely stoned. He couldn't really remember much about it, but he took House's word. He did remember a lighter giving out on them.

He placed it on the table, and pulled out a pair of glasses with the lenses taken out. "And this?"

"Crandall had a theory that if he wore glasses the professors would think he was smarter and treat him better." Wilson chuckled and then put them on; House stopped sifting through the box he'd placed on the couch and smiled at him. "It didn't work, but a lot of girls thought he looked hot in them."

"Why do you have them?"

"He left them," House explained with a shrug.

Wilson chuckled again and removed the glasses, placing them beside the lighter. He pulled out a newspaper clipping that showed a teenaged House panning for gold with his parents; he pulled out a fishing hook with a green feather attached to it; he didn't ask about this one, because he already knew House had gone fishing with his father a lot and bringing up his dad was always a sore subject. He pulled free a pair of plastic chopsticks with intricate designs painted on them and it didn't seem as though they'd ever been used. Like the fishing hook, Wilson didn't mention the paintball that was washed clean because he knew the story to that one, too.

He pulled free a matchbook, with only one match inside. "What about this?" he inquired, turning to face House.

"That's the matchbook I went and got because the lighter died out."

Wilson felt warmth spread in his chest and he felt silly for smiling. He read the hotel name on the cover and realized that it was, indeed, the hotel where they'd met. He held it in his palm and then gazed at House, who was pulling out shirts and sweaters and tossing them on the cushion beside the box. Although the anger and disappointment still thrummed a little, he felt an odd sense of peace too and he cleared his throat and looked back at the table when he realized he'd been staring for much longer than he should have.

He pulled free a tube of lipstick that he recognized as a colour Cuddy had worn often when House had been dating her; he scowled and didn't pretend that he didn't know why. He sifted through and found a Blockbuster receipt with the porn Wilson had starred in printed on it. He found a movie ticket to a movie they'd both seen and hated, having spent the entire movie mocking it under their breath, and then a half-masticated pencil that Wilson couldn't possibly think of any reason for keeping. He intended to ask House why he had it when something else caught his eye; a scrip.

He put the pencil down and lifted the scrip, knowing damn well that there was only one person whose scrips he'd keep.

When he turned it around to read it, he recognized the scrawl as his, but it wasn't a prescription he'd written. For a second he couldn't remember when he'd played MASH with House, but it came rushing back to him after a second of confusion. The jolt that hit his chest moved into his stomach and he tilted his head, seeing his name, plain and unblemished, and felt his heart skip a beat.

He remembered that day clearly now; he and Julie had gotten into a fight because he'd stayed late to discuss options with one of his terminal patients and her family. He'd forgotten a dinner and had missed it entirely when he stayed to go through that case's paperwork and when he'd called to tell her he was on his way, she'd snapped at him (rightfully so, he admitted). The argument had been heated and after a shouting match, he'd told her that he was going to spend the night as House's then, if she didn't want to see him. She'd accused him of cheating on her with House, and that was when he'd hung up on her.

He remembered grabbing the jacket from underneath's House's head just as an excuse to be against him; he remembered House touching his face with his foot after plopping his legs on him; they hadn't touched much, and he'd misinterpreted that as flirting. He swore House had sniffed his hair, so maybe he was.

Considering he'd kept the game, it seemed more likely.

He swallowed and turned to face House, who held a rock tee to his chest, shrugged, then tossed it on the pile. "Why did you keep this?" he inquired, voice hitting an uncomfortably high pitch in the middle.

House looked up, then the expression (which hadn't really been an expression in the first place) melted and his eyes flickered around the loft. He rubbed his forehead and switched his weight onto his other foot, and Wilson kept the paper in his hand. "I liked what I saw," he admitted croakily.

The paper slid from his grasp and fluttered downward; Wilson didn't see it hit the ground because he strode forward. House stepped away from the couch and kicked aside an empty box, grinning so hard his teeth were showing.

Their mouths met with a clash; lips stretching against the other in an attempt to stop grinning; hands gliding into the other's hair and guiding heads until the angle was just right. House's mouth slid open with no resistance and their tongues touched; battled. They devoured each other, breathing heavily through their noses and Wilson wondered if that was what made him so dizzy so quickly.

His fingers clenched tightly around the short strands in House's hair and he tugged him closer, as if they could somehow push into each other and became one entity. House retaliated, a sharp sting where he pulled on his hair but Wilson ignored it; poured everything he could into the kiss; the hurt, the betrayal, how much he'd missed him these past few months, the fear when he'd seen the car barrelling towards him-

Their lips and teeth scraped each other, and he felt his eyes start to burn again when House's fingers dragged down his cheeks and held his face, pulled away the slightest inch to suck in a shaky breath. When they plunged forward again, Wilson tasted tears that weren't his own and the frenzied grabbing and sliding of tongues slowed.

Wilson ran his hand down House chest; felt his solidity against him; clutched at the fabric of his pathetic Hawaiian shirt and reminded himself that House was real, and here, and back and his breath caught in his lungs and he had to pull away just long enough to catch it, before tilting his head the other direction and capturing House's lips again. House's arms wrapped tightly around his back and tugged him yet closer and their knees jostled; the wet slide of their mouths tasted of salt and Wilson felt the hot tears sliding down his face, mixing with House's as his beard scratched at his skin.

Despite the living hell Wilson had been put through the last few months, it didn't matter; House had come back. House was here, with him, and for the moment, that was all he cared about.

They pulled away and it wasn't until then that Wilson realized just how hard it was for him to breathe. Tears trailed down House's cheeks and spilled over his lids, but Wilson couldn't say anything that would be hypocritical. House slid his hands up Wilson's neck and held his face, his thumbs brushing underneath his lids, then he kissed him again; gently and chastely, but with no less emotion.

This time when he pulled away, Wilson smiled at him. The pounding in his chest was reminiscent of a narrowly averted disaster, and he beat back the thought of what it would have been like if House hadn't come back.

"I missed you," House breathed so quietly Wilson barely heard him.

Wilson wiped away the tears on his cheek with his knuckle. "I missed you," he replied with a sniff.

House snorted and then stepped away, smiling again. Wilson bit down on his lip and then rubbed the back of his neck, chuckling nervously. It had gotten pretty emotional out of nowhere, hadn't it?

"I know you cheated," House accused with a glint in his blue eyes.

"What?"

"The game. You had to cross out every seventh word. You crossed off Cuddy's name when you should've crossed off yours."

Wilson blinked and tried to defend himself, but no words came out. He had; Cuddy's name would've been the last on the name list had he not crossed it off instead. House must've recounted for some reason; perhaps for the same reason Wilson had lied about the final result. He'd known then it was nothing but a stupid game, but he'd wanted to be the last name left. It was the first time Wilson had ever truly admitted to himself that he'd felt something for House; something more than just friendship and an occasional glance-over. Perhaps it had been spurred on by House's flirting, or Julie's accusation; either way, when he'd put that pen on his name, the surge of disappointment had been sudden enough to make him cheat. He hadn't thought House would notice; hadn't thought it was going to matter.

Wilson narrowed his eyes. "So you knew. You've known all along that I-" He cut himself off; whatever it was they were doing, it was new territory. Best not to move too quickly and say anything too sentimental. "You knew," he finished quietly when House nodded gratefully at cutting himself short.

"Yeah."

"So then why didn't you do anything?" he demanded.

"Well I had to go through all the other names first, didn't I?"

Despite himself, Wilson chuckled and kissed House again. It didn't matter, he supposed, because before now, it could never have been just him; it had always been someone else, too. Stacy or him; Cuddy or him.

He pulled away and ducked his head to hide the fact he was blushing; he doubted he'd succeeded, but it was worth a shot.

"We should finish unpacking," Wilson suggested and headed towards the table, ignoring House's whine.

House grabbed his hand and Wilson turned back to see him. His chin was lowered and his eyes locked onto his when he licked his bottom lip. "It shouldn't have been a choice, Wilson. It should've always been you."

For the time being, that was probably the closest House was going to get to saying he loved him and, to be honest, Wilson was perfectly okay with that. Smiling, he nodded and squeezed House's fingers; remembered sneaking a hug all those years ago when trying to grab his jacket, and feeling stupid for not giving what that meant any thought.

They went back to unpacking, joking and sharing looks occasionally; House told him about what he'd been doing for the past few months, and Wilson expounded further on what he hadn't discussed before. They didn't set up House's old room, and instead hung up the clothes on the side of the closet Sam had used; they didn't talk about what that meant, and Wilson didn't think that they had to, either.

Dealing with the aftermath, months after the ordeal, was going to be difficult. He knew people were going to talk about House falling into his arms so soon after Cuddy; spread rumours about affairs or other such nonsense. People weren't going to forget that he'd taken his anger out on Cuddy's house, or stop telling everyone that he'd been intentionally trying to kill her. They weren't going to accept House any more than they had before, and their relationship wasn't going to get any easier.

He didn't care.

House had finally come home, and that was all that mattered.

* * *

><p>AN-Again sorry for the lack of strikethroughs. Just pretend the ones that aren't underlined are scratched out.


End file.
